


Dark Side of the Universe

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst and Feels, Batman is the Rebellion, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil Superman, Heavy Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Superboy needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-08 01:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Joker thinks handing over Batman to the Justice Lords, will give him his freedom. Even if it means losing his favorite playmate. Lord Superman isn't nearly that compassionate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dark folks. Another one of my evil Superman fics, but a little drawn out. This will probably be a three-parter, but I'm not positive yet. WARNING--Rape/non-con elements and one-sided attraction from a couple of angles. Like I said, dark. If this isn't your thing, please don't read. Also, likely triggers for all kinds of sexual and/or violent abuse. 
> 
> It's not canon and I took my own liberties to make the story I wanted. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this big ugly. Enjoy? Thanks for reading.

                He lifted his chin, cocking his head at an angle to peer down at the bound and gagged boy, smeared in blood in the belly of the warehouse. The air stank of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. Blood, thick and crimson and coppery tinged the air above it all, strong enough to taste with a deep breath.

                Joker liked the taste. It whetted his appetite, making him feel just on the good side of crazy.

                Crazy was good. Crazy was—expected. It was the status quo.

                When he stared at that miserable excuse for a human drenched in his own piss and blood, Joker wondered if the crazy would ever bring him just as low.

                He doubted it.

                Dropping from the rafters, in similar fashion to his counterpart, Joker landed gracefully on hard- soled boots. He’d traded his dress shoes in for combat boots around the second year of the Lords taking over. His iconic purple suit had died a sad death as well when he’d seen the need to wear lighter more breathable fabrics that could accommodate a ridiculous amount of running for his life.

                Offering a light grin, Joker stooped to pull out the gag then stepped back to assess.

                “My, my, little blue, it’s past your bedtime. How much longer do you think we’ll have to wait for dear Daddybats?”

                The boy spat a wad of blood and spit into the cement, his smile vicious for having two teeth knocked out. “Why, got an appointment to keep?”

                “Nah,” Joker picked at dried blood under his finger nails, “It’s not my skin I’m worried about. Well,” he shrugged both shoulders, “actually it is.”

                The boy laughed, and it sounded watery with blood, “You think Kal-el will keep you alive if you hand over the Bat? You think he won’t just put a fist through your heart as soon as the trade is finished?”

                Joker pursed his lips then dropped to his haunches to study the boy again. Supposedly a clone of Superman, this spry thing wasn’t nearly as magnanimous as the real deal. Though his eyes identical and his hair, that same dark shock of black, the similarities seemed to end there. There was soft aggression in his gaze, not open violence and even though the two aliens shared the same DNA, it didn’t appear that Superboy was going to grow as tall or powerful.

Joker brushed sweaty bangs off the kid’s forehead and received a growl for his trouble. The kid had to be nearing twenty, if not already. Then again, Joker was no expert. He tended to like them young.

                There was something to be said for the long lean muscles of a young strapping boy.

                “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

                Joker lifted a brow, then howled in laughter, doubling over from the force of it. “Oh my,” he choked down the hysteria, “You make me laugh. I mean, clearly, I can do what I want, when I want. I mean,” he gestured with a pale, elegant hand, “Look at you. Filthy. Beaten. You smell to high heaven. I hope Batsy brought potpourri to deal with the stink. And you still manage to hold onto that tone. It’s—” Joker swiped underneath his eyes, “It’s so charming.”

                “He won’t come.”

                “Yes, he will. You’re one of his soldiers. He’ll feel responsible and he’ll come.”

                The boy jerked his head, “No.”

                Joker’s watch went off on a timer and the hollow ding filled the space between them. “Oh. I nearly forgot. I suppose it’s time for another round of shots.”

                Superboy stiffened, the dull clunk of chains scraping over cement as he tried to straighten away from the Joker.

                “Not so fast.”

                There was a pitiably weak shuffle for control, then Joker was hoisting the kid into his arms, gripping that bite-worthy neck in a chokehold while he plunged the contents of a specially formulated concoction of blue kryptonite extract into a vein. It negated Kryptonian powers when given in diluted injections for several hours at a time. Joker had been gifted a case of the stuff after breaking into a certain underground lab of Lexie’s. He wasn’t stupid enough to try and use any on Lord Superman, but on Superboy? It had worked like a charm.

                And Joker was a no fool. The kid was special to the Bat. Just like all the other Rugrats that had followed the cape through the years.

                He’d come.

                Superboy went slack in his arms, his face contorting as his eyes scrunched shut and Joker couldn’t help but to smear the leaked tears with his thumb. Such a pretty face wasted.

                “Joker.”

                The little hairs on the back of his neck prickled deliciously and Joker let his eyes fall closed. He still held the boy tightly in his arms and though he could see the kid was out of it, he didn’t dare let go. Not while he held all the cards.

                His Bat was here.

                “Batsy. Took you long enough darling.”

                “Let him go.”

                “I can’t do that,” Joker said calmly, tightening his grip on the broad shoulders until Superboy groaned, “that’s not the rules.”

                “Then what are?” the voice growled from his back, only a scant foot away and Joker shivered.

                “You for him.”

                “Who put you up to this?”

                Joker shrugged, “Nobody. But it makes sense, doesn’t it Bats? I’ve been running for four years, ever since evil Superman took over the scene and I’ve finally found a way to make a deal with the devil. I give him you, he’ll let me go. He wants you more than he wants me now.”

                “What did you do to Superboy?”

                The voice had moved and was standing at his side now. Joker risked looking into the shadows and found the Bat steadily watching him. Broad shoulders encased in armor, long legs with weapons upon weapons strapped to his thighs and tall desert worthy combat boots. Only the cowl had remained from all previous costumes and Joker was glad at least that, had remained.

                “Hello,” Joker breathed, happy despite the situation to see the familiar face. They’d not laid eyes on each other in close to a year.

                “Joker, what did you do to him?”

                “Blue Kryptonite.”

                “You neutralized his powers.”

                Joker smirked, “I made him human, yes. And I’ve hardly scuffed him. Well,” he licked his lips, “Maybe a few bumps and bruises. But I got bored waiting for you. It took you days to realize he was missing.”

                “Joker,” the Bat came nearer, circling towards the front of Joker, “Tell me you understand that if you do this, Lord Superman will never honor any deal he makes with you. He’ll kill you the minute he has me.”

                “Maybe. Maybe not.”

                “He’ll kill me too.”

                Joker hesitated, eyeing the Bat with a deliberate patience. He’d thought of this. Many, many, times. He’d wondered incessantly what the big bad blue would do to his Bat, when all was said and done. He didn’t think it would be pretty. But—he was tired of running. And that was the crux of the problem. There was no Gotham anymore. Not really.

                There were no bank heists or bombs to set. Under Kal-El’s rule there was nothing for a clown like Joker to do. He’d grown weary of MREs and sleeping in half-dug out trenches with a gun in his hands. Weary of no chase. Of no blood rushing thrills.

                If he was going to be finished, then he figured it was poetic justice that he take the Bat with him. That they end together. It was how they were supposed to be. How it would have been had that sniveling alien kept his nose out of everything.

                “You want to die.”

                “I don’t care if I do,” Joker corrected, smiling widely. Superboy had roused a little and was starting to squirm in his grip, little panicked sounds of distress coming out of the back of his throat. It was distracting to say the least.

                “How will you contact him?”

                They both knew ‘him’ meant Lord Superman. Joker had already thought of that.

                 “As soon as you hand yourself over to me, I’ll make a scene. I’m good at those. He’ll come, just like you did and when he does, he’ll negotiate with me for you. He wants you. Desperately.”

                Batman levelled him a harsh glare, his cowl still black as soot but marked with dirt and grime and use. He looked as travel weary as the Joker, maybe more so. In some ways, Joker was doing Bats a favor by ending it all. The Resistance had put up a good fight, but enough was enough. They would never win, and things would never change.

                “Me for him? No games, no tricks?”

                Joker smiled in delight, stroking a hand gently over the Adam’s apple that struggled to swallow beneath his palm. “Yes.”

                “You’ll let me call for someone to help him? To get him to safety?”

                Again, Joker’s smile widened as he let himself consider the glory of this situation. It had been one of his better plans. With the Bat having lost so many Robins to Superman in the last years, it was no surprise that he was desperate not to lose another protégé. Superboy was special, even Joker could see that. And why not? He was as handsome as Big Blue was, but without all the evil. Batman probably got his rocks off to his face every night.

                Joker sure would. He’d not be forgetting these whimpering noises anytime soon.

                “Yes. But make it quick Bats. I’m feeling antsy and you know how I get when I’m like that.”

                He let his hand dip down Superboy’s chest for emphasis, skating over ruined flesh, forcing a strangled protest from the kid. It was—deliciously good to watch the Bat grind his teeth in anger. To watch him contemplate and negotiate every angle until his shoulders slumped in defeat and he was nodding in agreement.

                “Alright. I’ll do it.”

                “I knew you’d see reason, Batsy. Now, strip and then I’ll let you make the call.”

                Batman didn’t look horrified by the suggestion. No, he looked like he’d been expecting as much because he delicately pulled off the well-worn cowl then started dismantling the armor plating on his chest. The jacket got tugged off. The boots left like empty husks until all he was wearing were black thermals that had sandy colored streaks all over them.

                Joker had been aware of Batman’s identity about as long as the day Superman announced it to the world when he’d proclaimed the Bat and Bruce alike, were criminals and wanted. But still, even sweaty and pale and human, he was the Bat. He would never be Bruce to Joker.

                Always Batman. Always.

                “Excellent. You can make the call now.”

                Bats nodded, sharp and concise as he dipped to grab something out of the discarded jacket on the cement flooring. His hands were as steady as his gaze on Joker and the boy. Joker couldn’t help but to drag his nails lightly over the kids stomach just to see what emotion might flicker on the Bat’s face. The kid jerked, hissing in frustration, but remained silent. Bats’ right eye twitched, but that was all.

                It was enough.

                “My location. Two-man extraction team. Now.”

                The device was put away and Bats stared back at Joker with dull guarded eyes. If he was angry with Joker for this, he didn’t appear to be willing to show it. He was stoic. Not nearly growly or vicious enough for Joker’s tastes.

                “Lay down on your belly, hands on your back, laced.”

                When Bats complied, Joker finally relaxed his rigid posture and released the boy enough to rummage in his pockets for the thick zip-ties he’d packed. A couple of steps and a loaded gun pointed at the kid later, Bats was left lying on his stomach, cheek pressed into the cool cement, wrists and ankles bound to the point Joker knew he would lose feeling.

                It didn’t take long for the extraction team he’d called to come. Joker didn’t recognize their faces and nobody batted an eyelash at the scene. But the air was rife with tension and when they left, toting a semi-conscious Superboy out the way they’d come, Joker sighed in exquisite relief.

                Alone. Finally.

                This, felt much better. And more comfortably inside the parameters of their relationship. Joker didn’t want an audience for this. At least, not for what he was about to say.

                “Batsy, I feel like I need to get this off my chest before we call dear Supes,” Bats didn’t look up. His eyes hadn’t even twitched in Joker’s direction. “But I just thought you should know, it’s been a pleasure trying to kill you all these years. I’ll be sad to see you die. Or whatever it is Supes wants you for so badly.”

                Joker had a few ideas. Everyone did. A man didn’t have such a hard-on for another the way Lord Superman did without there being some other motive. He’d been obsessed. And Joker understood that sort of obsession. It went beyond the physical and headed straight down to spiritual. If he weren’t worried that Big Blue might take his head off, he’d try and get a piece of the Bat himself, for old times sake.

                But he didn’t imagine he had a lot of time. They were too close in this place to the border. Superman patrolled regularly and when he caught a whiff of the Bat, or heard a beat of his heart, he’d be here any moment.

                The roof to warehouse shook and dust streamed down around them in long shivery ribbons.

                Speak of the Devil. He’d not even needed to make a scene.

                Wanting to be ready for the confrontation, Joker moved quickly to haul the Bat up to his knees and kept a firm grip on one shoulder to steady the other man. This was going to be good.

                Like peeling open a can of soup, Superman physically broke his way through the steel rafters and floated down to join Joker and the Bat in all his alien glory. He wore the black and white of the Lords, with the bright red of his family crest smeared in red on his uniform like blood. Joker could admire style and panache when he saw it. Lord Superman had both in spades. He made quite the entrance.

                “Joker,” Superman said slowly, eyes roving the warehouse in steady arrogant strokes as if Joker did not in fact have the Bat at their feet waiting like a hog for the slaughter. “It’s been a long time.”

                “It has Supes. Quite a long time. I know you’ve been looking for me.”

                “Yes,” Superman said quietly, eyes finally falling to the Bat with nothing more than a lifted brow, “What is this?”

                “I’ve brought a gift. A—offering of peace, if you will.”

                “Peace.”

                “Yes, I’ve gotten you the Bat, in exchange for my life.”

                Superman’s mouth twitched at the corners, but his eyes hadn’t moved off the Bat and they looked dead. There was no emotion in their chilly blue depths. It was enough to make Joker’s palms itch to reach for his gun. Even though it wouldn’t do him any good. This had been a calculated risk. If he died, then so be it. He was ready.

                “And you let him think I’d keep him alive?”

                “I—” Joker started to speak, but was interrupted when Superman’s hand moved lightning fast to firmly wrap about his throat. Joker managed a choked sound in the back of his throat, then nothing else, as he was suddenly unable to draw in a breath. He went completely still in hopes it would speak submission to the alien.

                “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

                Batman responded then, and it sounded rough with emotion the Joker hadn’t thought the Bat was capable of. “I told him you’d never let him live. He didn’t care.”

                “And yet, you are still here. On your knees, no less.”

                “He was persuasive.”

                Joker’s feet kicked at the dusty floor as Superman lifted him higher by his throbbing throat and black dots began to speckle his vision. It was sort of—delicious dying this way. Maybe it wasn’t how he thought it would happen. But he was on full display for the Bat. And he was getting hard anyways.

                “How?”

                “Superboy. He captured him,” Batman rasped, giving no indication he was even aware how close the Joker was to death. He merely kneeled patiently, his body lax and his face forward. Nothing moved. No one breathed, and Joker started to go ragdoll limp.

                Then Superman dropped him and he hit the ground in a crumple of limbs. He gasped for air, blinking back the film of forced tears from the strangulation so he could look up at the alien.  

                “Is the boy safe?” This time, Joker was fairly certain he was being addressed and not the Bat.

                “Superboy?” Joker cackled, swiping his eyes and mouth. He’d never felt more alive. Or turned on. He could use a quickie if this was going to be his end. The idea of fucking Batman in front of Superman was hot enough to make him want to moan out loud. He barely managed to stifle the urge.

                “Yes.”

                “Of course, Batsy made sure the kid got away safe and sound. Couldn’t help himself.”

                Superman inhaled softly, still sheer control and finesse. Still perfectly unruffled in his black and white, despite the filth and the smeared blood on the floor beneath his impeccably clean boots. Such a dichotomy. Laughable really.

                “Superman, don’t—”

                “Don’t what?” the alien snapped, voice tightening only a hair.

                Joker licked his lips, prepared to argue his case, prepared to make a final stand but found himself being hauled back to his feet. He was grabbed hard at the scruff and shoved face first into the Bat. They both grunted as their heads slapped together, but only Joker laughed. He laughed till his sides ached as he smelled the Bat’s sweat and Nomex in his nose. He couldn’t have written this better himself. Being this close before death to his number one, was incredibly intimate.

                “Superman, you don’t want to do this.”

                Joker could feel the Bat’s breath on his cheek, could see the muscles in his neck twitching away from any contact with him.

                “Yes, I do.”

                “If you do this, you can’t take it back.”   

                Superman chuckled at Joker’s back, his hot hand still hard at his neck, “And you think I want to take it back, Bruce? You think I want to stop? That there’s still your friend in this body somewhere?” a pause, the sigh of breath beside Joker’s ear as the Bat sounded defeated, “Think again.”

                And somehow, Joker knew he needed to say his goodbyes. He knew this was it.

                “Batsy—”

                There was a sharp ripping sensation in Joker’s chest, almost like having the breath knocked out of him, but worse. Then a huge wet slurping tear and Joker could only manage one gasp, two, then he fell into Batman’s shoulder, lifeless and limp.

                The Bat hadn’t even had time to gasp in shock. It was over before it began.

                It was a quick death, as far as Superman was concerned. A just death, considering he could have drawn it out. Joker had deserved worse. But Joker had given him the Bat. And that was worth a little mercy.

                Superman withdrew his hand from the Joker’s chest and carelessly wiped the blood off his knuckles on the Bat’s face and neck. The Bat tried to withdraw, but with his wrists bound and Joker’s dead weight at his front, there wasn’t much he could do but take it. Superman lingered on Bruce’s mouth, pushing a bloody finger into those clamped limps, just for spite. He made the Bat taste the blood long and hard before withdrawing.  

                “Now you get to feel the blood of your enemies too. Warm, isn’t it?”

                Batman made a noise like he was going to retch, and Superman laughed. He laughed long and loud.

             


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING--This chapter in particular is very dark. There is a rape scene and it is fairly graphic.

               Batman was immediately housed in Kal’s private quarters in the Lords’ underground bunker somewhere on the skirts of the Gobi Desert.

               Since of the fall of man, the earth had become a great sandpit, saturated in heat and red-gold silt. So hot, there were no crops or vegetation left. Nothing grew outside the borders of Lord Superman’s domain. Nothing moved. What little life there was, could not sustain itself under the blistering torment of the too close yellow sun.

                Kal thrived. He was the strongest he’d ever been. And only growing stronger.

                The days were longer and brittle. Far too inhospitable for any real life to occur. So, beneath the Earth’s decaying crust, Lord Superman had amassed a city of devoted followers that obeyed the laws without question. They subjugated themselves for food and water and he magnanimously gave them protection. He let them stay in his self-created paradise. He let them live. And Kal actually believed he was doing them a favor.

                What once had been seven billion sinful, depraved, lives, had been boiled down to a scant nine hundred million, give or take. It was simpler that way. Much more efficient and controllable. The Resistance only accounted for around twenty thousand of those numbers and did not have the safety of the bunker. But they had found other ways of which to survive in the Outremer.

                They’d clung. Beyond hope. Past redemption and with shredded dignity. The Resistance had held, despite being hunted and starved. Despite having nothing and little chance of succeeding.   

                Bruce understood Kal. He understood the motives and the logistics of keeping a people under thumb by fear and intimidation. By controlling the resources. Water was scarce and sacred. A mother would do just about anything to ensure her children were fed and didn’t go thirsty. Even lick a tyrant’s boots. So, Bruce understood how it worked. He did. But it still made him sick to see it in action. It made him feel hopelessly lost when he thought of his _friend_ ever being party to such madness. To such—infernal destruction and slavery.

                It shouldn’t. Because he’d known the depth of Kal’s darkness for years. But it still bothered. It still ached. Like a rotting wound, left to fester.

                The people deserved better. They deserved freedom. But he was beginning to think his dreams of finding a way, were never going to happen. Particularly chained to the floor like he was.

                Bruce shifted his arms in the heavy manacles, testing their weight on the bones of his wrists as he stood and stretched his back. He’d been sitting for hours, waiting for Kal to come. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his eyes open. How much longer he could sit at the ready for an entrance that was sure to be violent. Kal had been trying to get his hands on Bruce for the better part of the last five years.

                Their reunion would not be limited to the warehouse.

                To Joker.

                If Bruce let himself, he could easily recall the warmth of that wet blood on his neck and face. He could remember with far too much clarity the sounds of Joker dying and the taste of the clown’s blood in his mouth, bitter and coppery. He’d vomited all over Kal.

                And Kal had laughed.

                God, how he’d laughed and laughed. Such callously frightening behavior as he finished cleaning his hand off then pulled Bruce to his feet and tossed him over a shoulder, like he was nothing. Like what happened was—nothing. Like he hadn’t just punched his arm through another man’s chest.

                Bruce didn’t want to remember. But he’d never forget it. Joker would star in his nightmares now. His cheek brushing is own, the meaty sucking noise as his heart was grasped, the gurgling choke of a life ending. Bruce would be haunted forever by it.

                He’d seen many men die. But never quite like that. Never so close and with such—grotesque violence. Even for the Joker, it had felt cruel. It had felt wrong.

               When Bruce heard the keypad being activated just outside the thin alien cell walls, he couldn’t help the stiffening of his frame. Despite his best efforts, despite years of training, Bruce didn’t seem capable of stopping the very _human_ response he had to Kal’s entrance.

               And he knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed. Kal saw everything.

               Kal strode into the room looking exactly as he had nearly twelve hours previous in the warehouse. He’d not changed. There was still blood, now a sickly brown color marking the white of his sleeve and stomach. It had the affect of making Bruce want to retch again.

               Bruce’s breath backed up in his lungs and strangled him. His heart, beat a staccato tattoo into his ribs, making him very much aware of when those alien eyes floated over him as if he was—nothing. If he’d expected his foe to have the same reaction, he would have been gravely disappointed. Not even recognition flickered in those chilly depths.

              Kal looked bored.

              This man was not his friend. This man had never been a part of his family or a godfather to his now dead children. He’d never laughed over coffee and pie in a late-night diner. This man, Kal, had never done any of those things. The moment Clark had died to Kal, all those memories had been erased.

              Kal’s expression only graduated from bland disinterest to something mild and verging on warm when he drew near enough to touch. Near enough to breathe in the smell of fear. If it pleased him to do so.

              Bruce was well aware that it did.

              “I had you brought here because I thought it would be more comfortable. Are you—” bright unflinching eyes roved over him, lazy and impersonal, “comfortable?”

              Bruce didn’t answer. Petty though it might have been, he didn’t want to make this any easier for Kal than necessary. Kal knew for a fact that the cell was too cold. Kept just about as chilly as he liked his fortress, a mere twenty degrees. There was a cot, made of the same material as the walls and a thin blanket that was so threadbare it would be laughable, if Bruce wasn’t certain Kal expected him to make due.

             “Are you upset with me still?” Kal’s eyes tightened at the corners, “Are you grieving the clown that much?”

             Bruce ground his teeth to keep from responding. He kept his eyes on the floor and willed himself not to move when Kal stepped nearer, the whisper of his boots sending a shiver down his spine. Kal was near enough Bruce could feel the heat of his skin through the thin thermals he was still wearing.

             If Kal wanted, he could kill him as he killed Joker. He could put a hand through his chest and end it all. Quick and neat. But he wouldn’t do that. Kal wouldn’t have brought Bruce here if he’d intended any of this to be quick.

            “I see you’ve decided to go with the silent route. I should tell you, I don’t mind.”

            The hand still stained with Joker’s blood rose to brush absently at Bruce’s hair, a feather touch with the weight of violence beneath it.

            “It’s been so long Bruce. I’d almost lost hope in ever seeing you again. You look nearly unchanged.”

             Kal’s fingers traced down his forehead, over his brows and then the bridge of his nose. Bruce couldn’t make himself look up and into those eyes. He couldn’t even breathe.

             “Your heart is racing,” Kal mused, sounding only mildly interested now. Sounding like he was discussing a recipe in a cookbook. “Are you afraid Bruce? Do I make you afraid?”

             Bruce fought the urge to lash out at him. And God, he wanted to. He wanted to shove that hand away with those coppery smelling fingers that still hadn’t left his face. He wanted to _hurt_ Kal for hurting him. For taking everything and everyone he ever cared about away. For murdering Clark and making them enemies.

             He hated this man. No, this creature in front of him. He hated him so much he could feel the acid burning up the back of his throat threatening to choke him as he remained silent and trembling with rage.

             Kal’s hand dropped to his neck, bracketing his throat like he was measuring it for a collar. Bruce would be lying if he said his pulse didn’t skip and then rush headlong towards panic. “You look a little older. Maybe it’s the wrinkles at your eyes. Or the dirt on your skin. When’s the last time you bathed Bruce? I can smell the desert on you. And the sweat,” Kal leaned in, brushing his nose along Bruce’s jaw like it was the most casual thing in the world.

             Bruce flinched.

             “Ah,” Kal inhaled again, “You even smell like it,” a pause, the weight of the hand squeezing just enough to make Bruce’s breath catch and his hands twitch to move up and fight the hold, “Like fear.”

              Abruptly, Kal released him and sighed, with enough weariness to actually sound tired. But Bruce knew that to be anything but the truth. With the sun as close as it was to Earth, Kal’s cells never grew weary. His powers were almost unlimited. His need for food or sleep or anything really, gone. He’d never really needed it before. Now, he didn’t even need to pretend to.

              “I’ll be back in a day. Maybe two. Perhaps you’ll feel like talking to me then. If not, we’ve got nothing but time.”

               Bruce’s hands fisted at his sides, but he kept silent. He held his ground. Kal merely left.

 

               Kal kept his word and did not return for two days.

               Bruce suffered through the first real hunger pangs like it was nothing. The thirst, was absolute. He was given a cup of water. One cup of water. And he sipped on it sparingly to keep himself from going mad with the urge to pace. Pacing would only make him more thirsty.

               Pacing would warm his freezing muscles.

               He wasted hours in his seclusion with the threadbare blanket draped over his shoulders, curled into a ball. He would get up every thirty minutes, stretch, take a miniscule sip of water and then return. He passed time this way and kept track of the minutes in a strangely detached sort of way.

               When Kal came back, Bruce was weak enough he struggled to get off the cot. Refusing to fall on his knees in front of Kal, he remained lying down, curled up with his back to him. It left him feeling naked and exposed. But it was also an insult. Kal wouldn’t like being ignored.

               “Rationing water was smart Bruce,” Kal began, surprising him by kneeling at the bedside to run a hand over the ridges of his spine. Bruce almost, almost jerked away. It was better to show nothing at all. Better to seem as unaffected as Kal. To seem as inhuman. Because regardless of Kal’s neutral façade, he was looking for something from Bruce. And the most obvious conclusion would be that he wanted a reaction.

               “Your skin is so cold,” Kal murmured, again with that slightly bored voice, his fingers insistent on Bruce’s neck as they probed around his collarbone beneath the thermal. Bruce fought the shiver that wracked his frame and failed. “So fragile.”

_Fuck you._

              “I could give you a blanket. Water. Something to eat. A warm bath.” A pause, the pad of a finger tracing his windpipe up to his chin, then pausing on his lips, “But I would need something in return.”

              Bruce couldn’t help the full body quiver of revulsion even if he’d wanted to. It was an instinctual response to Kal. One that made him want to either attack or to hide. As weak as he was, it was a toss-up which one he’d choose if forced to.

              “I could take what I wanted,” Kal droned on, hand dropping from Bruce as if he didn’t really care all that much. Bruce knew it was a lie. “I could just take and take and take. I’m good at that. You know I am.” He chuckled darkly, “And to be honest, I almost hope that’s the way it all works out. But I like this game. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years and I’d like to see where this takes us. Don’t you?”

              Bruce cringed away from Kal’s warmth when he pressed in, then placed a mouth against the shell of his ear. Kal’s lips were so warm they seemed to burn his skin as he spoke, the deep rumble of a sadistic killer coaxing its prey into their trap. “I like you like this.”

              One hand came to rest heavily on Bruce’s left hip and the fingers flexed dangerously. “I like you unsure of how to respond. Scared of saying anything that might,” Kal ran his teeth along Bruce’s ear lobe, “make me snap. Scared of making things worse for yourself. But I’m going to let you in on a little secret Bruce. I’m going to share something that might make this more—bearable for you.”

              The fingers splayed on Bruce’s hip flexed and then clamped viciously tight. Bruce gasped out a breath, abruptly arching away, scrabbling on the cot to _move_. He couldn’t get away. And he knew that. But his mind felt fuzzy and distracted. His lack of food or water taking their toll and he didn’t seem capable of making himself sit still. Not when that hand was threatening to break his hip.

              Not when it _hurt_.

              “I’m going to hurt you Bruce. I’m going to hurt you, over and over and over. And I’m going to like it. I’m going to get off on it. Because I’ve been dreaming about it for years. And now that I have you, I have no idea how long I’d like to make this stretch out. But it won’t be fast,” the fingers ground a little deeper and Bruce sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth, slamming his eyes shut, “It won’t be quick. I promise, you won’t enjoy any of it. You won’t like what I do to you or how I do it. But I will.”

               It was worse, hearing the threats in such a cool manner. So calm and soft, amidst the white-hot pain that was being inflicted.

              “It could be months,” Kal mused now, lightening his grip, then smoothing that hand over the throbbing wound like an afterthought, “Or years. There is no time limit. Time doesn’t exist for me anymore.”

               Kal delicately rolled Bruce over with the same hand on that same hip and Bruce choked back a cry of pain.

               “There, that’s better. Isn’t it? Now we can see one another.”

               Bruce wasn’t looking at him. But that didn’t seem to bother Kal. Not in the least. Kal didn’t seem bothered by anything at all.

               “If I happen to get information out of you during our time together about the Resistance, I might offer you some—relief. But only some. I won’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”

               If Kal expected Bruce to speak and make some sort of bargain, he was sorely mistaken.  

               Kal remained at his side for almost an hour. And said nothing else. It was as if he’d drifted off into his own thoughts and didn’t remember he wasn’t alone. He kept a hand on Bruce’s hip and the other further down on a knee but didn’t move. Not even to breathe.

                Apparently, he’d stopped pretending he needed to.

                When Bruce felt himself drifting off against his will, Kal finally flickered back to himself and stood. He said nothing else. He promised nothing else. And he left.

                Later that night he was offered another glass of water and one measly roll.

                Kal intended to keep him alive, even if it was just barely, for as long as it took to mete out his revenge.

 

                Bruce felt groggy when he next woke.

                The cell was dark. Still night, simulated or not. No reason to be awake.  

                But there was the distinct note of sour alarm in the air, making the hair on his body stand stiff. He struggled to make his brain catch up; to do what it would have so easily only days previous. The lag was frustrating.

                Bruce scanned the darkness like a blind man, eyes skipping over the shapeless shadows, assessing and cataloging in a pattern that was timeless to him. He almost missed the tall outline of a man leaning against the wall. But even half-starved and dehydrated Bruce didn’t appear to be able to shut off training. He was awake because he wasn’t alone. Danger was close.

                “You still mumble when you sleep.”

                Kal. How long he’d been there watching, didn’t matter. Why he’d come to visit now, did.

                Bruce’s breathing itched up past normal. His heart followed suit. Maybe it was the dark. Or maybe it was the way Kal was leaning against the wall, just out of full view that made Bruce feel suddenly more threatened, but he felt the unease snake down his middle and pool angrily there.

                “What—” God, his voice hurt. He hadn’t spoken in days and he was thirsty. So thirsty it felt like speaking through gobs of sand. But he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself. This felt different. He couldn’t stop the compulsion to ask, even if he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of it. “What are you doing, Kal?”

                Silence greeted him. Minutes ticked by and Bruce wondered if Kal had only come to watch for a flicker of a moment. If that was all the torment this night would be.

                He knew it was too good to be true.

                “He speaks.” Bruce could imagine Kal’s brows rising high on his forehead, his eyes warming to Caribbean blue at the change. But even that might be too much of a reaction from the Kryptonian.

                “Kal—what—”

                “Shhhh,” Kal whispered, suddenly striding nearer, silent as a wraith. Bruce blinked blurrily at the image of him, at the sheer size as he came closer and almost yelped when Kal reached out and clamped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t worry, I want to hear you scream. But first, I’d like to say something while you’re listening. Are you listening Bruce?”

                Bruce could hear the roar of blood in his ears. The sticky working of his throat as it struggled to swallow. The panicked nasally whine of his breath desperately trying to make it in through his partially covered nostrils. He couldn’t see well in the dark.

                But he could feel Kal’s skin. Hot and alien smooth. He could smell him. Clean and crisp but still faintly smelling of blood.

                “Bruce, are you listening?” Kal was at his ear now, running his teeth on the lobe like before, biting down hard enough to make blood well up beneath the skin. “Nod your head if you are.”

                Bruce did. He could do nothing else. He was so weak he was like a newborn babe. And that was all likely part of the plan. All part of the sick twisted games Kal had been planning for the years they’d been battling one another.

                “Good. I don’t like having to repeat myself,” Kal hadn’t moved a muscle, but his fingers felt tighter, more suffocating. Black spots threatened in the corners of Bruce’s vision. He couldn’t get in enough air. He was panicking and not breathing enough. He’d pass out soon.

                “I’m going to fuck you now.”

                No preamble. No games. Simple, cold, hard truth. And Bruce knew it.

                Bruce jerked like he’d been struck. Then immediately started thrashing in a vain attempt at escape. He had to try. He had to.

                Kal only had to put a hand on his chest to keep him from wriggling off the cot. He only had to exert a minute amount of pressure to keep him pinned like a butterfly to a Styrofoam board.

                “I’m going to fuck you and you’re going to scream and it’s going to be very, very gratifying for me. And do you know why Bruce?”

                Bruce shook his head, kicking his legs out, still struggling, still suffocating, though the bulk of his body was restrained beneath Kal’s palm and his face was being smothered by the other. His struggles were rapidly growing weaker. Rapidly becoming so pitiful Kal would have had every right to laugh at him.

                “Because you like control,” Kal grinned, malicious and glistening white in the dark, “Because you hate when you lose it. And this is the biggest loss of control, isn’t it? Me on top of you, crushing the air out of you, violating you in every way possible. Making your own control over your body snap till you scream and shame yourself like the little child you are beneath all this muscle and scar tissue. It’s the greatest punishment, to a man like you. Something I think will feel like a knife to the heart. But I can’t be certain,” Kal inhaled softly, “So you’ll have to tell me when we’re through.”

                Kal abruptly removed the hand over his mouth and Bruce greedily sucked in air, momentarily forgetting about everything else so he could just _breathe._

                It didn’t last long. Reality was a bitch and it was on Kal’s side. It wanted him to suffer and beware of every fucking nuance to this moment. He came back to himself brutally.

                Kal was neatly ripping his thermal shirt down the middle with a finger like it was butter and it jerked him by the guts right back into the moment. Right back to what was about to happen.

                Adrenaline dumped into his system; a hard kick in the ass and he fought with every ounce of strength he had left. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

                “No,” Bruce growled, bucking and kicking. Biting at fingers that were skating past his face and into his hair to fist around a handful. “God damn you, Kal. No!”

                “I won’t explain that fighting this is only going to hurt more. You already know that.”

                “Kal, you fucking sick fuck! Stop! Stop this!”

                Kal’s expression didn’t change. His breathing stayed even and centered. His eyes looked dead. It looked wrong. All wrong. Too nightmarish and frightening in the blue hue of the artificial night.

                It didn’t feel real.

                Maybe that was why when Kal got Bruce’s pants off and dragged him to the floor, he started to loose feeling in his fingers and he felt so sluggish he couldn’t even make his mouth work to cuss properly. His lips felt fat. His breathing was too loud and too close to sobs. His eyes kept blurring under a sheen of moisture that made everything magnified and more fake. More strange.

                He wasn’t here. This wasn’t happening.

                Kal rolled him to his stomach with ease. He gripped him by the nape of his neck with one hand and hoisted his hips up where he wanted them with the other arm.

                Cold air ghosted across his ass and Kal was too hot against him. Too real, despite the unreal feel of everything else.

                It all slowed. Slowed till Bruce didn’t remember the first few seconds. Which was a blessing to some degree, because there was nothing to prepare him for the pain. Or for his own guttural responses to it. 

                He made awful noises. His throat was so dry, each sound that got forced out of him sounded like he was being kicked in the stomach. Bruce tried to relax, just to make the pain a little less, but every time he managed to get close to loosening his muscles, Kal would shift, change position or reef on his hair and he’d be right back. He’d be clenched like a board coughing till he felt vomit coming up the back of his throat.

                The more Bruce strained, the harder it seemed Kal decided to punish him.

                Bruce didn’t scream.

                He could say that much. He’d—managed that much.

                But it wasn’t much to be happy about. Kal didn’t seem to mind he’d not gotten as much noise out of him as he’d wanted. He’d gotten enough.

                Kal finished after an excruciatingly long amount of time. And let Bruce melt into the floor in a quivering bleeding mess with a satisfied sigh.

                He didn’t even sound out of breath when he spoke.

                “Better than expected. Thank you.”

                Bruce didn’t have the energy to growl. Or to pretend. He just stared vacantly at the wall. He stared at the legs of the cot that were only a few inches from his face. His shirt was in half on the floor. His pants were by his bare feet. His toes were touching them. He was cold, but he couldn’t move. Nothing was working yet.

                There was wet leaking out of him. His blood. And Kal.

                A secondary violation that made him feel small and strange and weaker.

                He recognized it as shock. But was no less helpless for knowing it.

                Kal moved to sit on the cot and peered down at him with passing interest. His eyes glowed dimly red in the dark. “I’m feeling charitable. Still hungry?” Bruce opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a choked moan. “Of course, you are, here,” Kal hoisted him up roughly by his hair, then finished the job with an arm around Bruce’s waist. Pain screamed through his frame and Bruce couldn’t stop the keen of protest that slipped past his lips. Bruce ended up being held like a baby in Kal’s lap, and the affect was more than satisfactory it seemed. Because Kal chuckled.

                Bruce’s skin was crawling. He felt like he had hives from head to toe and needed to scratch. Scratch till he bled and then scratch a little more.

                “You look so small like this.”

                “Please,” Bruce whispered, not sure what he was asking for. His eyes had closed, and he couldn’t keep them open. He was suddenly, absurdly, tired and Kal’s heated skin felt particularly tormenting because of his own icy exterior. He wanted to curl into his persecutor and sleep. It was sickening.

                “Poor little Bruce,” Kal chimed, running a hand over Bruce’s face and neck, pausing over his chest, “Still pounding away, isn’t it? I bet you wondered if you were going to die, didn’t you?” Kal laughed again and this time it sounded warmer. Closer to Clark’s laugh. It made Bruce stiffen and try to pull away.

                “Oh shhh,” Kal crooned, “Hush little Bat. I’ll get you something to eat and drink. Don’t you worry that muzzy head of yours. I’ll bet you aren’t even seeing straight at this point, are you?

                He struggled to open his eyes, to sneer up into Kal’s face but managed.

                Kal’s smile was faint in response. “Defiant to the last.”

                “Fuck—y-you.”

                Bruce mustered every last drop of spit in his mouth, which was pitifully small, and spat directly in Kal’s face.

                Kal blinked down at him, rubbed at the speckle on his face with his thumb, and then grinned hollowly. “No, need. I’ve got you for that.”   


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Lordy! This was a rough chapter. It's so gritty even I want to grimace when going over it. As you can see this is the second to last chapter in this little monster. Thanks for reading and following it with me.

                Bruce woke shivering on the cot.

                Though he was draped in the thin blanket, he could see his breath faintly in the air, making little wisps of cottony clouds around his face and neck. The damp made him want to curl into himself and fall back asleep. But that was impossible. The moment his eyes were open he felt every little nuance of his body protesting what had been done to it. And his mind, hummed right along with it to catalog and complain about the unfamiliar sensations rolling over him.

                 He didn’t move for the first ten minutes, too keenly aware of the pain he was going to experience when he did. Too hypersensitive about the fact that he was naked beneath the blanket and not clean. He felt tacky and filthy, finely dusted in dried sweat and Kal’s smell.

                It made him feel sick all over again. And very much aware of how little there would be to throw up in his stomach if he did. Regardless of Kal’s promise to feed, bathe, and hydrate him, he’d yet to fulfill it. There was a part of Bruce that hoped he would simply forget about him in this cell and that he’d die within a day or two.

                It would be easier. It would be preferable to a second visit from Kal. To whatever else Kal might think suitable as punishment. And Bruce could only imagine it was grotesque.

                It wasn’t as if the Resistance was coming for him. They couldn’t risk the death toll it would cause. It could wipe them out entirely. Still, Bruce had dreamed of them coming. He’d dreamed of the impossibility of freedom. And he knew it was simply his mind dredging up fantasies of which to focus on to cope with his reality.

                The reality that he would die here. With Kal looming over him.

                The weakness in his limbs was absolute. It made it almost impossible to sit up, let alone get out of bed and try to find a place to piss. But he needed to. Or he was going to have no choice but to do it right there in the bed.

                Bruce shifted, winced, and then couldn’t help the full-blown moan as he made himself sit up. His head throbbed, a rapid thready pulse behind his eyes as he forced himself to survey the room. Nothing had changed. Everything was still the same. Except Kal had left his torn shirt on the floor beside the leggings. He’d left the evidence like a reminder for Bruce of what had happened and could never un-happen.

                The destruction of something sacred and private.

                Bruce swallowed thickly, struggling to a shaky stand, making himself move to where Kal had thoughtfully placed a bucket for his use. It was surprising there was anything in Bruce’s bladder to relieve at all. Even so, he leaned heavily into the wall to support himself, panting like he’d walked a mile rather than across the room.

                When finished, Bruce stiffly turned and stumbled over to where his pants were. Anything was better than nothing. He was shivering violently by the time he’d managed to tug them up his thighs and over his darkly bruised hip bones. The shirt was a non-starter. There was no use for it now. So, Bruce left it and went back to the cot to curl beneath the blanket again.

                It shouldn’t have surprised Bruce in the least when Kal came striding into the room a handful of minutes later. But Bruce must have dozed off again because he jolted in the cot and found himself scrambling back against the wall as the Kryptonian drew close to inspect him.

                “I suppose you’ll need something to eat and drink now. I’ve pushed it long enough.”

                Bruce said nothing. What was there to say to the man who’d literally raped him where he was now standing? If Bruce were willing to look, and he was not, he was certain there were even stains on the floor as evidence to the debauchery.

                 “Back to that, are we?” Kal shrugged, “That’s fine. Like I said before, I really don’t mind.” Kal kneeled in front of the cot and grasped one of Bruce’s wrists, tugging hard enough that Bruce had no choice but to either fall face first or catch himself on Kal’s shoulder.

                “Food or bath first?”

                Bruce pressed his lips together. Kal squeezed the wrist in his hand until the bones ground audibly and Bruce grunted. “Food.”

                “Alright. See? Not that hard. I can be reasonable. Now, can you walk?”

                Bruce wanted to say that he could. But he’d hardly made it a few steps without wanting to collapse and he wasn’t certain his legs could hold him if he tried anything longer. Shame warred with sticky rage as Kal lifted a single brow in question and he was forced to shake his head, no.

                “Good. I was hoping you would say that.”

                Kal’s moves were too quick to be considered normal, but they were fluid and easy. Relaxed, as he pulled Bruce painfully to his knees and then shifted to carry him over a shoulder. In this position, Bruce was required to put all of his weight directly on his stomach which was draped over Kal’s shoulder. Blood rushed to his head and he saw black dots in his vision as Kal stood and then placed a warm hand at the back of his knees, to steady him.

                “Sore?”

                Bruce gritted his teeth and panted in a breath. It was a struggle to breathe like this and Kal knew it. Kal sighed, all boredom and lack of interest as he turned and headed for the door. They walked in silence as Bruce squirmed in the hold and tried to find a more comfortable position. Holding his upper body up on Kal’s back was more of an effort than he could manage at present, so he was forced to go limp and let himself jounce hard on his stomach. The muscles in his low back and ass burned as they rounded corner after corner and Bruce thought he might pass out as all the blood in his body went to his head.

                By the time they reached whatever room Kal had prepared, Bruce was flickering in and out of consciousness. He was unceremoniously dropped from Kal’s shoulder and hit the ground hard.

                He hissed in pain and blinked back a rash of tears when his rump took the brunt of the fall. Kal hummed in response, moving around him to grab a tray left on a table.

                “Food.”

                Bruce squinted past the water in his eyes and saw that Kal was offering him a protein bar. And what looked like Gatorade. That was it. But it might as well have been manna from heaven. Bruce struggled to open the packaging on the bar with shaky fingers but managed after a few frustrating tries. Then it was an effort in extreme willpower to remember not to simply snarf the entire bar as quickly as possible. His stomach cramped around the food, twitching and threatening to send it all back up. But he kept eating. He ate until it was gone then he went for the blue drink.

                It tasted like a Gatorade. And Bruce had no doubt that Kal was making sure he was getting just enough hydration and electrolytes to stay alive. Just enough sustenance to make it through whatever the next stage of torture was going to be.

                Kal watched him throughout, silently staring with a glazed look over his normally expressive blue gaze.

                “You’re fascinating to watch.”

                Bruce blinked up at Kal and frowned. The man had looked anything but fascinated. His expressions didn’t match his words. Which was to some degree, more frightening.

                “Are you ready for a bath?”

                Bruce looked down at his hands resting limply in his lap and wondered when the last time he’d been clean was. A long time. His skin was coated in dirt and sweat. Blood. It would feel good to get clean. But it would also mean getting naked in front of Kal. And there were so many things that could, and likely would, happen with that scenario.

                “I’m—” Bruce swallowed past the gravel in his throat, “I’m fine.”

                “I guess I should have posed that better. Because it was more of a rhetorical question. You are going to get clean. Because you reek. But it sounded better asking you, didn’t it?” he hummed, reaching absently for Bruce’s wrist again to draw him up to his feet roughly. Bruce barely held back the cry of pain by clamping his lips tightly closed. “Whenever I’m around you, it brings up all the old flickers of what I used to do. The way Clark Kent liked to behave. Old practiced habits of being friendly and polite. Does it help when I behave like he used to?”

                “Clark never did this to me.”

                Kal shrugged, hefting Bruce back onto his shoulder in that same painful and humiliating way, but this time allowed a hand to rest on the cleft of Bruce’s backside, his fingers just a tad too tight. Just a bit too close to the epicenter of pain down there. Bruce sucked in a breath and groaned when Kal knowingly gave him a good squeeze.

                Shame and disgrace flooded Bruce from crown to toes.

                They left the room and walked a little more, down a hall and then into a smaller space. Here, the lights were dimmer, and Bruce could _smell_ the water in the air. Such a precious commodity. It made his mouth salivate, despite already having drank an entire bottle of Gatorade. He still felt thirsty; his mouth terribly dry.

                “Here we are,” Kal chimed, stepping deeper into the room as to deposit Bruce a little more gently this time onto the floor of a tiled shower. Bruce managed to stay on his feet this time. “Strip.”

                The order was not up for debate. But Bruce still hesitated, swaying on his feet as his head spun from the blood working to get itself back to all the right places.

                “Bruce,” Kal sighed, eyes tracking down the length of his frame in a deliberate slowness that made Bruce itch to cover himself, “Take off your pants. Or I will do it for you.”

                Bruce obeyed. There would be no point in disobeying. There would be no reason to. Kal could make him do anything. And he might just hurt him worse for all his trouble. So, Bruce slipped out of the leggings and tossed them out of the shower. Kal hardly looked at him as he flipped on the water, blasting Bruce with scalding heat that was too hot but somehow still felt good.

                Bruce scrubbed himself with the offered soap and rag, keeping his eyes down on the floor as he did so. Kal remained silent. Still watching, still unmoved. But the air felt thicker the longer Bruce cleaned and he sped up the process, soaping everything and then rinsing with a touch of panic flickering in his stomach.

                When he finally looked up to search for Kal, Bruce felt all the breath shove out of his lungs.

                Kal was naked now.  

                And Bruce just stood there. He didn’t move at all when the other man stepped into the shower and started to soap himself with the same rag Bruce had used. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing until Kal’s naked skin brushed up against him and a tortured fucking whimpering noise forced itself out of his lungs.

                Kal laughed when Bruce backed up and hit the wall, having nowhere else to go. He laughed when Bruce screwed his eyes shut and clenched every muscle in his body to stop the shakes from making him looking weaker. But he was terrified. And he _was_ weak.

                Boiled down to a baser self he didn’t like at all. Standing in a steamed up shower with an alien that was not his friend. That was not his ally. Bruce was weaker than he’d ever been in his entire life and it terrified him.

                Kal was breaking him more successfully than any before him.

                “Already ready for more Bruce?”

                “No,” Bruce whispered, eyes still shut, body ramrod stiff. He could _feel_ how close Kal was. Kal sighed out a long breath and it whispered over Bruce’s face and eyelashes. Bruce’s stomach clenched with nausea and he had to fight not to cower.

                Kal didn’t seem as interested in talking this time. Bruce couldn’t decide if that was worse. Or better. In some ways, Bruce could dissociate. He could make himself go somewhere else, especially without the familiar voice taunting him in that emotionless rhetoric. But then, maybe it was worse. Maybe it was worse when those hands slicked up his sides and dug into the muscles in his back.

                Maybe it was worse when Kal said nothing as he explored Bruce like they were lovers and not something so much darker. Kal’s fingers were punishing and too hard. His breath was too hot on Bruce’s face. And Kal knew it. It excited him perhaps more than even the night previous had.

                Though one wouldn’t know by the steady cadence of his breathing or the rock-solid thump of his pulse against Bruce’s chest. Bruce managed to keep his eyes closed until Kal started kneading his ass, digging cruel fingers into all the places he’d already abused, then he was arching away and consequently _into_ Kal just to get away.

                Survival instincts kicked in hard and he couldn’t make himself refuse them. He started squirming away, curling inward and panting as the adrenaline dump demanded that he act.

                “Ah, ah, ah. Hold still.”

                “Please,” Bruce whispered, straining and then tensing up at the intrusion of Kal’s fingers, struggling not to fall as his legs threatened to give out. “God, Kal. Please stop. It’s too soon.”

                Kal nosed along his neck, gentle and non-threatening, still toying and playing with him like it was nothing. Like this wasn’t destroying Bruce from the inside out. Like it didn’t hurt like hell after the previous abuse. No amount of water or soap was going to make this less painful.

                “Do you really think that begging has any affect on me Bruce?” Kal laid an open-mouthed kiss on Bruce’s throat, right where his pulse was frantically thrumming. His teeth grazed the skin, threatening to bite down over his carotid. “Do you Bruce?”

                The pressure increased between his legs increased, and Bruce’s eyes burned until a tear slid down his cheek.

                “No.” The word croaked out of him, rough and shredded.

                “I didn’t think so. Still, feel free to do it. It’s—arousing watching you try.”

                Bruce had to swallow several times to keep the vomit down. To keep that precious protein bar where it needed to stay. But it was a struggle. The pain was incredible.

                That was until Kal abruptly switched positions and had Bruce face-planted against the wall. Then the pain became absurd. Bruce didn’t do much better about relaxing than the first time. He tensed, he cried out and squirmed. He did everything wrong and backwards, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was the single-most painful experience of his life. If the first was awful, this was worse. This was so much worse.

                Maybe it was because when it was all said and done, Kal didn’t just finish and leave. No, he couldn’t, or rather, wouldn’t do that. Kal had to linger. He had to tell Bruce how much he liked his ass. How good he felt being submitted like this. Kal had to rub the salt in the wounds. And then laugh about it.

                Bruce didn’t realize he’d passed out until Kal slapped him across the face. And he snapped back hard, gargling around a mouthful of blood from the impact.

                “Whoops,” Kal snorted, “Little too hard. I forget sometimes how fragile you all are. I think I should put you back now. The field trip was fun, but I’m getting bored.”

                Not allowing him to wash again, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, Kal did as before and toted Bruce around draped over a shoulder. He walked naked and wet back to the cell where he deposited Bruce with no promise of a return. Bruce hoped he’d die of hypothermia before then.

                Naked and damp, Bruce eagerly climbed back onto the cot and clutched the frayed blanket up to his chin. It didn’t smell like anything. Which was a blessing and though his hair was wet and dripping down his back and neck, he found himself unable to keep his eyes open.

 

                Kal understood there was only so much he could do to a human man before the body gave out. Still, it was interesting to see how far he could take _this_ particular man. A man who had been brought so low that he’d beg and plead for even a scrap of mercy. It was laughable. It was—entertaining. More entertaining than anything had been in so very long that Kal imagined he’d be faintly disappointed when he finally killed Bruce.

                Because he would have to kill him. That was after all, the end goal. It wouldn’t take long before even Bruce’s reactions bored Kal. But until then, Kal could think of a few different ways he’d like to have Bruce. On his knees, against a wall, perhaps even in a bed at some point. If he was feeling charitable. It didn’t matter how or where to Kal. It didn’t even matter about the getting off as much as it mattered that he was hurting Bruce. Bruce could withstand physical torture. And pain.

                He was a man that had trained his mind to cope with such scenarios. But Kal knew for a fact that there just wasn’t a decent way to handle being raped repeatedly. That was something that neither man nor woman could sustain long term without breaking. Such violations did something to the human psyche that was outright erotic.

                And Kal was glad he was not immune to the seduction of it. It gave him renewed purpose. It gave him something to look forward to. Even if it was just for a short time.

                Kal liked watching the emotions flare on Bruce’s face. A face which was already becoming more and more gaunt with such little rations to come by. This too, brought Kal pleasure. He liked seeing Bruce weak and frail and human. Everything opposite of what Bruce wanted to be. It made their experiences together all the more rewarding to him.

                He’d been enjoying Bruce’s presence for three weeks. It had not grown old yet. When Kal drifted in his thoughts, he often wondered how long it might take before he was through with him. He hoped to draw it out and get as much as possible before then.

                When Kal came into Bruce’s cell in the evenings now, Bruce almost always was hidden beneath the blanket in a tight pitiful ball. Kal purposefully kept the temperatures cooler and refused to up them. Neither did he offer Bruce any clothes. This kept Bruce in a perpetual state of unrest. Something which could be a scientific study in human behavior and limits, all in itself.

                Kal strode over to the cot and without preamble, tore the blanket away. Bruce didn’t quite gasp when the cold air hit his skin, but he did curl into himself more, jutting the vertebrae of his spine tighter into his skin. He’d lost a good bit of weight. Kal didn’t mind it.

                Bruce still had a pretty face, which was enough.

                “Get up.”

                Bruce didn’t appear to hear him. Or maybe he couldn’t get up. Kal didn’t care. When he wasn’t obeyed right away, he sighed and fisted a handful of Bruce’s hair to make him get up. The man grunted at the action and stumbled to comply, falling to his knees first with gritted teeth then hissing as Kal drew him all the way to his feet and even further onto his toes.

                The domineering position this afforded him made Kal want to hold him like this forever.

                Silver blue eyes snapped murder at him and Kal smirked. “Hello.”

                “Get it over with.”

                “Not exactly what I had in mind today.”

                Bruce’s hands were latched around the one holding his hair and he winced when Kal squeezed a little tighter. Kal could _hear_ the hair tearing out at the roots.

                “I thought we might talk about the Resistance now. Though it isn’t my ultimate goal to get information from you, it would still be helpful. What do you think?”

                Bruce’s mouth dipped into a scowl and his eyes went to the floor. Kal merely shook his head and released the man’s hair after another little jerk. Unsurprisingly, Bruce went down hard on the floor and mumbled a string of curses that sounded pained and brittle.

                “I know you think you’re hurting now. But things could be worse for you. If I wanted that. They could be much worse.”

                Apparently, Bruce didn’t agree. Because he made no move to speak. He simply sat on the floor, naked and mulish with no chips to bargain with, whatsoever. Kal lowered down to his haunches and gripped Bruce’s chin, forcing the man to look at him. Bruce stubbornly kept his eyes averted anyways and Kal chuckled. It amused him how Bruce tried to resist. No matter how foolish.

                Kal reached forward, found Bruce’s index finger on his left hand and with a neat pinch, broke one of the bones easily. Bruce sucked in a breath, eyes slamming shut and panted out a few steadying breaths.

                “Feeling any different now?”

                Bruce growled, low and threatening. Despite not being the Bat anymore, he certainly tried. It was adorable. Kal broke another finger, just to see what he would do. And the Bat didn’t disappoint, he hissed, muscles clenching like he was gearing up to fight, and his eyes latched onto Kal’s. Bingo.

                “There we are. See? Easier when you don’t resist. Easier when you just relax isn’t it? I keep trying to explain this to you. But you remain stubborn to what might make it all better,” Kal considered Bruce a moment, then released his chin, “It’s like I told you last night, if you’d only try and soften up a little, you might enjoy what I’m offering you.”

                “Enjoy it?” Bruce spat, “Never.”

                “Many would disagree.”

                “Many are not me,” Bruce’s hands fisted in his lap, “I don’t like even a moment of what you’ve been doing to me. And you know that. Stop trying to play with me. I will never reciprocate.”

                Kal tipped his head, a bird assessing his prey, “Do you think I need you to respond sexually to have you ‘reciprocate’ for me? Bruce, that’s just silly,” now he laughed, and it felt good. Bruce was making his day. “All I need is for you to whimper and it makes it worth it. In reality, the more you tense up, the better it is for me. You’re only helping me to fuck you better. You’re only making it worse for yourself at the same time as giving me exactly what I want. And the best part is, you can’t even help yourself. Because you’re human. Humans are weak and fragile. You know this. I touch you,” Kal gave him an example by placing a hand over Bruce’s crotch, causing the other man to jolt with surprise, “And you react. I don’t need the reaction to be positive for it be pleasurable to me. So, you see, you are already participating, reciprocating, if you will, and you don’t even know it.”

                “I hate you.” The words were whispered. Strangled and teary. Kal smiled in response, petting a hand gently over Bruce’s hair. It was still black as night, but there were strands of gray at the temples now. He was aging.

                “I know. And I hate you. In a way, that’s rather romantic. A hate affair for the centuries.”

                Bruce’s lips trembled, and his eyes closed angrily, “I won’t tell you anything. You know I won’t.”

                “I know.”

                “Then go.”

                Kal traced the line of Bruce’s brows which were low and frustrated, then pursed his lips, “I will never stop. I will kill every one of them. And the best part is, I don’t even care. I don’t care about anything anymore,” he hesitated, leaning in to press a kiss to Bruce’s forehead, “Not even you."

                It wasn't the first time, so Bruce knew what Kal was going to do when he kept Bruce seated and then rose to a stand. He wound a hand back into Bruce's hair, feeling those silken strands cry out under the strength of his knuckles. Bruce murmured a word that sounded like a please. It made this better. It made this better knowing how much Bruce hated it. Then he positioned himself and in front of Bruce's mouth and offered no mercy. Bruce choked, gagging and sputtering. Tears and drool streaming. It was like watching a symphony. A masterful symphony. 

               

                Day thirty-three. Bruce was starting to hallucinate. He’d been hearing voices for the last few days and even though he knew they weren’t really there, he’d sometimes whisper back to them. He’d let himself pretend and it helped. It helped a little.

                Kal gave him a protein bar every day and the same Gatorade. It was enough to keep him going but Bruce suspected he’d lost a dangerous amount of weight. His bones seemed to stick out more when he was trying to sleep and it made it difficult to get comfortable on the cot. Though so did the fact that he was perpetually naked and cold. He supposed he was probably burning the calories he was taking in just in shivering alone. It made it hard to close his eyes and rest. Even though that was really all there as to do. He passed the time Kal didn’t spend with him by sleeping.

                Or most recently, talking to the voices.

                They told him the end was near. They promised he would die soon. They offered peace and sang lullabies that were reminiscent of the songs his mother used to sing to him before falling asleep as a child. Bruce sometimes hummed along with the songs or asked them questions. The voices never answered questions, but they did repeat the promises. The did remind him that it was almost over.

                Kal was going to get tired of his game. Kal was going to be fed up with the same status quo and then when it was all said and done. Kal was going to kill him. And it would end.

                Bruce wanted the end. He wanted it so, very, very badly.

                Bruce was lying on his side, tracing patterns into the cell wall, humming to one of the lullabies when he heard the rumble overhead. It was different than the voices had been before. Different than they’d ever given him.

                But he wasn’t alarmed. Because it wasn’t real. The motoring rumble of a transporter engine would have been a nice dream. It would have been something fantastical to imagine. Because it would mean the Resistance might have found him and then they could save him. Despite all the odds and the possible casualties. But Kal would have this place hidden too well within the confines of his little paradise. He’d have it stashed away, where no one would ever find him.

                They were on the skirts of the Gobi Desert, buried deep underground. Where no light or heat or air could even reach. No one was coming.

                Still, the rumble was peaceful. And Bruce liked the sound of it with the lullaby of the voices, so he smiled and kept tracing the patterns into the wall. And hummed to the lullaby as the rumble got louder.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide at first how I wanted this to end, but then I was writing it and I just CAN'T let Kal win. Or have Bruce die. So realistic or not, I've got to do something. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd, that's all she wrote! Thanks for your lovely comments and for reading this. I appreciate it all.

               The minute the doors were forced open, Kon ran.

                He ran down through the halls of concrete, smooth and refined. No blemishes or scuffs. Not even a spec of dirt. Everything within Superman’s private prison was kept airtight and artificially controlled. It was a vacuum of control and power with layer upon layer of utilitarianism. If Kon’s life didn’t literally depend upon the speed in which he needed to be moving, he might have stopped and stared. He might have savored the rarity of the cool, clean, air.

               But every second was borrowed, every minute—a gamble. If he failed, this would be a suicide mission. If he succeeded, he’d be bringing back the leader of the Resistance and a dear friend. A father. Even just the threat of failing, of not bringing Bruce home to Outremer made Kon feel sick to his stomach. He couldn’t do this without Bruce. He couldn’t keep fighting all alone.    

                But Kon couldn’t think about failing. Not now.

                Superman would have heard them coming. He would already know who was invading his home and why. But Kon could only hope that the second attack from the south side of the building would give him the handful of seconds needed to grab Bruce and go. It was their only hope. That and the tiny seedling of blue housed within lead in his pocket.

               When he ran out of the hallway, Kon descended the stairs at lightning speed. The deeper he went the colder it got. Born out of a test-tube, Kon had never had the privilege of knowing much about his heritage. But he could recognize the alien nature to the environment the father he went. This place was marked with Superman’s touch in more ways than one. He’d made it a haven. A monolith to his people.

                Concrete gave way to smooth Kryptonian walls, until nothing that was manmade remained. Like ice smoothed with frosting, everything glistened wetly but would be dry to the touch. When the stairs finally ended in an open ballroom-like space, Kon could see his breath. If he didn’t know that they were in fact buried beneath thousands of pounds of sand in a blisteringly hot desert, Kon would have thought he’d been transported to the arctic. Superman had made everything just like home. Like his old palace of ice that he’d called the Fortress of Solitude.

                That placed had been destroyed during the first culling. It was long gone. An ancient relic to a past that would never exist again.

                The shiver was soul-deep and unwelcome as it ran over Kon’s arms and legs.

                He had to focus to keep his breathing even and his ears trained on his goal. There was only one heartbeat he wanted to find, and it was a steady cadence in the shells of his ears. He would recognize the familiar thump of it anywhere, beckoning him across the polished floor to another hallway. The room opened like a giant mouth with a dome of ice overhead that was as spectacular looking as it was deadly. Each pointed icicle pledged the death of whoever stepped beneath it.

                Kon ignored the instinct to freeze and instead darted for the hall he could hear the heartbeat coming from. This hall brought him past several doors, some of which were open and obviously storage or living spaces. He ignored them.

                The last door at the end of the hall, was of course where the heartbeat brought him.

                He couldn’t afford to hesitate. Bruce never would have. It was now or never. Do or die. He would rather die than live without Bruce.

                Punching a fist through the door jarred his bones all the way up to his shoulder and he sucked in a pained breath to compensate. The Kryptonian material was thick and abrasive as it scraped over his knuckles and ripped his skin.

_Hurry, hurry, hurry._

                Surging inside the cell, Kon found what he was looking for and sagged with relief.

                “Bruce,” he moved further into the room, scarcely even registering that the heartbeat resounding in his ears was in fact coming from the figure in the corner. “Let’s go.”

                The man in question didn’t move. He was lying with his back to Kon, with a blanket pulled up to his ears. Kon shook the nearest shoulder, impatient to leave as quickly as they could. Superman would find them soon enough and when he did, they’d both be dead.

                At least that was the most likely scenario if he they were found.  

                “Bruce,” Kon tried again, then jerked when Bruce sighed and rolled onto his back to peer owlishly up at him. He looked—like a prisoner from a war camp. Thin, waxen, and hollow. Emptied out.

                Later. Emotions later.

                _Hurry, hurry, hurry._

                “We need to leave. He’ll be here any minute.”

                Bruce’s brow wrinkled, but he’d not moved. Kon didn’t have time to be patient. He grabbed him by the arm and pulled. Bruce spilled out of the cot unceremoniously and Kon was so stunned by what he saw that he did freeze. Nothing could have prepared him for it. Shock warred with a sudden sickening twisted rage and he swallowed thickly past the cloud of it. He needed to focus. He needed to stay focused on the mission and move quickly. But his throat felt like it was closing, and he wanted to let loose a feral scream and attack something—anything.

                “What the fuck did he do to you?”

                It was a stupid question. Because it was obvious what Superman had done. The bite marks alone would have delineated something foul, let alone the handprints. The bruises on Bruce’s hips were so dark they looked black.

                “Kon?” Bruce was blinking rapidly now, fuzzily shaking his head like he couldn’t think straight, “Kon?”

                “Yes,” Kon cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from the marred flesh and the incriminating evidence, “Yes, it’s me. We need to hurry Bruce.”

                Bruce licked his lips, blinking again, “Hurry?”

                “He’s coming. Superman is coming and if we don’t hurry, he’s going to kill us both. Do you understand?”

                Bruce looked down at his lap, at his hands that were curled loosely there. “Kal.”

                “Yes, he’s coming.”

                “He’s going to kill me soon. They promised.”

                His voice was distant and emotionless. Robotic. Frightening as hell.

                _Hurry, hurry, hurry._

                “Not if we leave. Let’s go Bruce.”

                Bruce lifted his head and frowned, “You’re real?”

                “Yes. I’m real. I don’t want to have to do this, particularly,” Kon gestured at Bruce’s body, “as I can see he’s put you through hell, but I need to carry you and we need to leave. Now.”

                Like coming out of a foggy dream, Bruce finally appeared to understand, because he tried to stand up. It was wobbly and awkward, but he managed. Jaw clenched and eyes flashing with a familiar determination, he nodded stiffly at Kon. It was all the invitation he needed.

                Kon picked him up bridal-style, had the wherewithal to grab that measly blanket, and threw it over Bruce to cover him from the cold. Then he ran again. Heart thundering in his chest and ears, body shaking like a leaf, Kon was as terrified as he’d ever been.

                They didn’t make it far. They didn’t make it far at all.

               

                Kal supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised to see the boy holding Bruce to his chest like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But it was a bit of a shock. He’d been expecting something to be attempted before long, though not something so reckless. Or stupid.

                “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it Kon?”

                The boy, now much more man than the last he’d seen him, scowled over Bruce’s head tucked beneath his chin. Only Bruce’s hair was visible from the edge of the blanket draped over him. But Kal could see the tension in his body and he knew it well. Kal knew every reaction from Bruce now. Every little sound he could make. Every nuance of that body when it twitched or writhed or arched. He knew it so intimately, Kal could say he knew it better than his own body.  

                “Let us leave.”

                Such strength in those words. Such resolve.

                Kal quirked a brow, impassively studying the mismatched pair for a moment. It was interesting that the child thought he’d ever even consider such a statement. But still, he supposed he should be grateful to Kon for providing an interesting diversion. Abusing Bruce’s body was already starting to become just shy of routine. Kon’s presence could spice things up considerably.

                Killing him would probably be the highlight of his year. Right next to killing Bruce.

                Would it be cathartic to kill someone with his face? Albeit, a younger, leaner face. But it was still him, to some degree. Kal could see where Kon bore his genetics, though they were strongly bastardized.  

                “You’ve got something that belongs to me.”

                “Bruce doesn’t belong to you.”

                “Oh?” Kal murmured, inhaling softly as he took in the scent of himself still in Bruce’s body from only a few hours ago. “I beg to differ. And Bruce would too now, wouldn’t you, Bruce?”

                Kon tightened his grip on the man, his mouth thinning angrily, “You’re a fucking monster.”

                “A God, if you will.”

                “What could you possibly gain from doing this? From keeping him like this?”

                “Everything,” Kal answered honestly, beginning a slow circle around the pair, watching as the boy’s shoulders stiffened and Bruce’s breathing raggedly picked up. Bruce knew how this was going to end. It was another game. Kon just hadn’t been playing long enough to know the difference. But Bruce had. It made the game feel more intimate and exciting. It made Kal hungry for his daily pound of flesh.

                Should he make Kon kneel and suck him off before he snapped his neck? Or should he violate him in front of Bruce and rough the boy up for a bit of sport? There were endless possibilities and forms of punishment to be had.  

                “I’ll fight you. To the death,” Kon warned, voice going dark with murderous intent. Kal liked that. He liked it a lot.

                “I expect no less.”

                Kon’s bravado seemed to waver as he slowly, slowly lowered Bruce to the floor and then rose back up, his muscles flexing and bunching in preparation for the so-called fight. It would be far too easy to kill the child. It would be—funny, really. Still, the very notion of having a smaller more naïve version of himself at his disposal was unique. He’d have to take full advantage of it.

                Admittedly, Kal had been furious when he’d seen the Resistance barraging his headquarters. It had been an easy task to kill the majority of them. Though a few had escaped his wrath. But he’d not expected the double blind. He’d been a little distracted, wondering what Bruce would do if he knew his people had tried a suicide mission to save his pathetic soul.

                Kal blinked up at Kon and only heard the last of the sentence.

                “—kill you.”

                Whoops, Kon had been speaking. Kal didn’t intentionally mean to be rude but with Bruce sitting so prettily on the floor looking like he was about to throw up, it was sort of a distraction. All sorts of dark and twisted fantasies danced his head. He’d like to smear Bruce in Kon’s blood and then fuck him till he cried. Fuck him till he squirmed and begged. Bruce didn’t beg every day, but sometimes, if Kal was lucky enough or found the right buttons to push, he did. Kon would be an exquisite button to push.

                Bruce would give anything to prevent the child’s death.

                “Bruce?”

                Kon stepped in front of him, “Don’t talk to him.”

                Kal sighed, “I’ll be with you in a moment. Bruce?”

                Bruce’s eyes flitted over to him and held. He’d lost any bit of color in his face and looked like a pale-eyed ghost. He trembling hard on the floor, already weak.

                “What would you give me, not to kill him?”

                Bruce’s eyes widened, “What?”

                “It’s a simple question. What would you give me, not to kill Kon?”

                Kon made a hissing noise that was about as frightening as a kitten mewling on the floor. Kal grinned at the boy and shrugged when Bruce said nothing. He’d get an answer one way or another. It wasn’t that Kal didn’t believe in fair play, but well—no. No, he didn’t. He didn’t believe in fairness or justice or anything of that ilk at all anymore.

                So, he gave no warning when he attacked.

               With visceral speed, he shot forward and grasped Kon about the throat, knocking the breath out of the boy’s lungs. Then he squeezed. Perhaps the boy would have been able to react quicker, had he not been so emotionally compromised. Especially since Kon did have a few of Kal’s strength, though far less potent. Or, maybe he would have thought this through better altogether and not even bothered to come. As it was, Kon did nothing for the first several seconds but devolve and choke. He clawed at the hand stealing his air and silently opened his mouth in what looked something like a scream.

                It made Kal unbearably hard to watch it. And eager to take.

                Who knew seeing his own face in pain could be so erotic?

                A breath later, he’d thrown Kon on the ground beside Bruce and was stalking over to join them. Bruce scrambled to Kon’s side, trying to revive him, but it didn’t appear the boy was firing on all cylinder’s yet, because he just gaped when Kal descended upon them.

                 A little floppy and a whole lot weak, Kon was no match for Kal’s brutal power. With the sun as close as it was, and a fresh dose of it humming in his veins, Kal was practically buzzing with pure energy. It was as unfair a match as placing a baby against a man.  

                When Kal ripped through Kon’s shirt the same way he’d done with Bruce, Kal had expected a reaction from Bruce. He had hoped for it. But he was surprised by the vehemence with which Bruce attacked. Adrenaline made him reckless and wild. Exciting. Like being annoyed by sand gnats on a beautiful beach, Kal hardly felt Bruce slam into him. Bruce bellowed a war cry, spurred on by his fear and disgust and he attacked with wild abandon. It drove Kal’s pleasure to a new level.

                He didn’t stop Bruce from tearing at his hair or clawing at his face. None of it would physically deter him. In fact, it only spurred him on. The seconds drew long and thick, heady with the scent of panic in the air and Kal savored it. He indulged himself and made it last.

                With Kon putting up a good fight to stay clothed and virginal beneath him and Bruce doing his best to shred him from behind, it was the perfect combination. Kal liked it. And they had no idea they were just making everything better. Always making it better for him without even meaning to. It was going to be good. So good.

                Bruce was so vicious and pitiful, panting out threats that he could never keep, hurting himself so much worse than he could ever hurt Kal. A true mamma lion, fighting for her cub. And Kon, God, Kon was only making matters worse by squirming so badly. Still, he wished this would last longer than a few minutes.

                He’d have to kill Kon when he was finished getting off.

                Kal got a hand down Kon’s waistband and then abruptly staggered. In the chaos of movement, in the blink of an eye, there had been a prick in his thigh no bigger than a needle’s width. But that couldn’t have been—how could he be so abruptly weak?

                He blinked down at Kon, the boy with his face, and saw the flash of triumph there in his cerulean eyes, but he didn’t understand it. It made no sense.  

                Something fiery and foreign rushed through his system. It was like being bathed in fire and he shivered from head to toe. Then he unceremoniously collapsed forward into a limp heap.

 

                “What did you do to him?” Bruce sobbed out the words, out of breath and dripping with sweat. He couldn’t think. His brain felt like it was on fire and he was going to crumple into a heap beside Kal. He felt like he was going to die.

                Superboy shimmied sideways out from beneath Kal and Bruce took one look at the boy’s scraped up chest and belly, then hunched over and vomited. The shakes took him over hard and fast, making his belly cramp over and over, making him want to curl up and moan from the pain.

                It had been close. Too close. Far too close.

                Almost ruined. Just like him. Kal almost ruined him, taking that sacred, special thing that no other should take. Bruce's thoughts were like insects rapidly falling over each other in a confused panic.

                “Blue Kryptonite.”

                “What?”

                Bruce’s ears were ringing. The adrenaline was fading and in exchange it was leaving him paralytically weak. He didn’t know how much longer he had before he was a useless ragdoll. But there wasn’t much time.

                Kon nodded, licking blood off his lips as he reached for Bruce’s wrist to drag him further from Kal. “We found more in Joker’s lair about two weeks after we discovered his corpse. Apparently, Superman didn’t cover all his bases like he normally does. Only a shard, but it was enough.”

                Bruce stared at Kal and swallowed thickly, “He was busy.”

                _Hurting me._

                Kon’s eyes flashed with understanding but he was already wrapping that blanket around him, smothering him with Kal’s smell. Bruce closed his eyes to quell the nausea and merely grunted when the boy pulled him back to his chest.

                He understood they needed to leave. They needed to keep moving. But he wished they could wait a minute and slow things down so he could process the freedom. Because none of it felt real.  

                If it was over, why didn’t it feel like it?

                “We don’t have much time. He’ll metabolize that piece much faster than I could. You ready?”

                “Yes.”

                Bruce had never been more so. But he felt frighteningly detached and weary. He felt wrong. Like he was still dreaming and none of this was actually real. Had the voices been real too? Would they keep talking to him when he went back? And what was he going back to?

                They would never win the war. The planet was already doomed for destruction. Whatever they did from here on out was merely stalling for time. Was it even worth it?

                Kon was running with him, jostling all the aches and pains together and Bruce had to clamp his mouth closed to keep from screaming out. One breath at a time. One heartbeat at a time.

                By the time they stopped running and he could hear the faint murmur of the engine he’d recognized in his cell, Bruce could feel the darkness closing in around him. It was intoxicating and welcome. It was freeing to want to slip inside it and forget about all of this. At least for a time.

                “Bruce?” Kon was at his side, speaking roughly in his ear above the whir of the engine, but Bruce couldn’t open his eyes. “I’m giving you a little bit of morphine.”

                “S-save it.”

                “No,” Kon rumbled, patting a hand on his shoulder, “You need it.”

                Bruce didn’t have the energy to argue. He could only lie back and let himself slip into the inky dark. Kon’s presence was comforting. The engine whirring overhead was monotonous and peaceful. Bruce slipped into oblivion and dreamt of Clark welcoming him home.

                It was the first good dream he’d had in months.

 

Epilogue—3 months later

 

                Bruce still had nightmares about waking up in his little cell beneath the ratty blanket with Kal watching him. He still woke before dawn and could smell Kal. He could feel him, around him, _in_ him. Then he’d smell the desert and feel the heat and Bruce would come back to himself in increments until he remembered he’d gotten out.

                Kon had rallied the troops and somehow, against all odds, he’d been saved.

                It shouldn’t make him wonder if he’d deserved to be saved at all. But it did. However, messed up that was.   

                There were days Bruce didn’t feel like anything was real. Days when he’d question his reality and wonder if he was really back with Kal and this was all just a dream.

                But those days were getting fewer. And further away.

                When Kon started sharing his quarters with Bruce nearly a year previous, Bruce hadn’t complained. Their numbers might not have been many in the Resistance, but space was limited. It was reasonable to have two to a room within the red sand walls of Outremer. During the last three months, Bruce had never been more grateful.

                He’d needed the support. He’d needed Kon.

                Every bad dream, every terrifying flashback he’d had since his return, the boy was quietly there offering support. Silently giving a shoulder or reminding him he was home. He’d never been more grateful. He’d never seen Kon more as a son than the last few months. It healed something deeply broken within him to know the boy felt the same.

                He had lost all of his sons. But he had Kon. And Kon had him. As pitiably small as it was, there was something to be garnered from that.

                And he was home. Strangely, irrevocably, Outremer was home. The people who lived in her walls were a part of something bigger than themselves. They would likely never win, no. But they would stand for something before they died. They wouldn’t go quietly, and they wouldn’t have lost for nothing.

                Which was something he’d die proud of. Though, it wasn’t his time yet.

                Bruce knew that when he faced his men and asked them to risk their lives, one more time, in one more mission, so they could infiltrate, damage, or maim something of Kal’s empire. He could see how much the missions meant to them. How much it offered hope like a balm to their aching hearts.

                He felt the same. So, no, it wasn’t his time to die yet. He was glad he’d survived Kal long enough to make it home.

                “Bruce?”

                Bruce blinked up from the log entry he was working on and frowned at Kon who’d brought in a swirl of dusty red. No surface was safe from the pervasive sand. Even still…Bruce tried to avoid getting too much in his bed.

                “Yes?”

                “Storm is coming. Should hit us by midnight.”

                Bruce sighed, putting down the pen to mark his spot in the logs. “Did you inform watch command?”

                “Yes. Everyone is calling it an early night. Command said curfew has been enforced.”

                “Good. We don’t want to needlessly lose someone who thinks they can fumble their way through the sand.”

                “Yeah,” Kon agreed, peeling off his jacket to sweep more sand to the floor.

                Bruce rolled his eyes, “Couldn’t you have done that outside the room?”

                “Why?”

                Bruce looked pointedly at his cot and lifted a brow, “Because I like sleeping without that shit in my covers.”

                Kon grimaced, “Sorry.”

                “It’s fine,” Bruce sighed, scrubbing the grit from his eyes, “Anything else?”

                Kon hesitated as he shucked his boots and stacked them by the jacket before stuffing everything under his own cot. “No. I mean, not really.”

                “What is it?”

                “There’s been some anomalies in the atmospheric pressure. Traces of dark energy.”

                Bruce lifted a brow, “That’s a little—concerning.”

                “Yeah. Greeves was telling me it could be nothing. But it could also mean we’re about to get visitors.”

                “Visitors?” Bruce tried not to let the anticipation leak into his voice, but it did, and the boy heard it. They’d dealt with things slipping from other dimensions before with the JLA. But that had been lifetimes ago.

                An ally, or an enemy? 

                “Yeah. Like another dimension or something? Greeves wasn’t super specific. The traces are faint anyways. So, it could be nothing.”

                “Right. Maybe nothing,” Bruce agreed, nodding his head absently.

                “You want to play chess tonight?”

                Bruce dragged his brain away from the strange energy anomalies and forced himself to smile. He could think about the possible visitors on a different day. At another time. “Think you can beat me this time?”

                “Worth a shot.”

                And it was. It really was. 


End file.
